


After the Burning of the Ships

by Findecutie



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Losgar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:59:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findecutie/pseuds/Findecutie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon and Fingolfin stand at the water, watching the fires at Losgar and thinking about Feanor and his followers and about their people and the choices they will soon be forced to make. Fingolfin, after discussing Feanor with his son, remembers a brief time- long ago- when he thought his brother could do no wrong and when he is certain his brother must have loved him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Burning of the Ships

Red rose in the east with the coming of the day, and the sky was as a field of blood. Smoke still hung in a haze above Losgar, marking the place and the action that tore the Noldor asunder. Fingon stood on the white sands of the beaches of Alqualondë, already washed clean of blood by Uinen or Ossë and glimmering once more where the jewels of the Noldor remained strew about the sand. Fingon knelt down to grab one which shown with blue-white fire under the stars; he could not fail to recognize his uncle’s craftsmanship.

 

“Findekáno.” Fingolfin moved to stand beside his eldest, also looking to the east.

 

“We’ve a long journey ahead of us, atar.” Fingolfin sighed. Of course they did.

 

“And not much time to prepare for it. Your cousins will be joining us; Arafinwë is leading a host back to Valinor of those who lack the stomach or desire to go on.” He sounded quietly displeased. After swearing an oath to follow his eldest brother, being abandoned by said brother and deserted almost immediately afterward by the youngest son of Finwë was far from pleasing.

 

“And wherefore shall we find passage? The Teleri refuse it and I fear Ossë’s wrath should Noldorin ships attempt the voyage.”

 

“At times there is no good choice.” Fingolfin’s eyes followed a wisp of smoke that escaped the haze and blew towards the north. He continued calmly, “we are left with but one option.”

 

“Our people will not be comfortable with this course.”

 

“They will follow their leaders, as we all must do.” Fingon stared at his father, who appeared to be focusing intensely on the far shore from whence the Noldor had departed inland.

 

“You love him.” Fingon said softly. He appeared surprised.

 

“Of course I do.” Fingolfin’s voice was soft and gentle as the sea breeze- a counselor’s voice, rather than a leader’s. “Ever was he foremost in my father’s heart, and ever have his works been without peer, outshining the rest of the Eldar as the light of the Trees outshone the stars above Aman.” He frowned. “Curufinwë is one without equal, and his errors, though seldom, have the same potency as the good he has wrought. Those things aside, he held our father in his arms when he was lost, and though ages have passed, there was a brief time when he loved me.”  Fingolfin gave Fingon a knowing look. “Those who are directly touched by one with the blood of the Spirit of Fire do not easily set that aside.”

 

They stood silently for a minute. “Beleriand looks like it has been bathed in blood.”

 

“Our aim is towards the rest of our people who seek out Morgoth,” the name was practically spat, “on grounds of his own choosing. The deaths of the Noldor and Teleri in Aman are but a drop in a sea of blood that will be shed ere this is finished.” The words rang with truth.

 

“I shall find what we have of the house of Finwë and see to our supplies. Food and warmth with both be lacking on the Helcaraxë.” Fingolfin nodded, dismissing his son.

 

“Findekáno?”

 

“Yes, atar?” Fingon turned back.

 

“Do not focus solely on gathering food and garments. Once we reach Beleriand I fear we will urgently need blades.” Fingon inclined his head in understanding and left. Fingolfin continued to stare across the sea _. Full brother in heart. You shall lead and I will follow._

_~~~_

 

_“Curvo, Curvo!” Fingolfin shouted excitedly. His brother was rarely at home; most of his time was spent abroad in pursuit of knowledge and in the mastery of crafts. His brother’s coming always pleased his father more than anything he could do, and Fëanor always dressed in bright and shining raiment and brought home the most exquisitely beautiful creations._

_Fëanor shrugged Fingolfin off his arm without breaking stride, eyes ahead of him looking towards Finwë’s home. “Nolofinwë,” he murmured._

_“Brother, brother did you see the sea? The sand is like you! It looks like it’s on fire, now!” Fëanor glanced at his younger brother._

_“And do you like it?” Fingolfin nodded his head, bouncing up and down in excitement. “Well, then.” A corner of Fëanor’s mouth quirked upward. He had spent months studying the capture and refocusing of light. Barrels of jewels sent to the Teleri would hopefully help to build favor with the only sea-farers of the Eldar. Fingolfin sensed his brother’s pleasure and glowed._

_“_ You _made them! I knew it!” Fëanor laughed at this, and swung Fingolfin into his arms. Fingolfin continued to chatter with the speed and enthusiasm of a young squirrel. The child was a bundle of energy, and far too… Vanyar-esque for his comfort, but he could certainly demonstrate a fine appreciation for Noldorin crafts. In truth, he seemed even more pleased with the jewels than Olwë had been. They were all flawed, of course, but then jewels tended to be. Perfection, in Fëanor’s mind, was an unattainable goal to strive towards, not a state that a project could meet._

_As they reached the front door Fëanor set Fingolfin down, immediately desiring to find Finwë, who would likely be in his personal study or the library. Before he strode away, he ruffled Fingolfin’s hair lightly. He hesitated, then appeared to come to a decision._

_“Here,” he murmured, reaching into a pocket and sliding something into Fingolfin’s hand. He strode away quickly, red cape flaring out behind him, and left Fingolfin standing in the entrance clutching something warm and smooth. He opened his fingers slowly and gasped as the floor and walls of the marble entrance hall were lit with shimmering blue and flashes of gold, looking suddenly as though the hall had been flooded and he was staring at the patterns of light through water. “Curvo,” he breathed._

_~~~_

 

Fingolfin eventually turned back from the shore and the haze and the sound of the sea. There were far too many tasks that needed doing before they would be prepared to leave; and given the fury of the Teleri, the curse of the Valar, and the horror of his people, it would be best that they departed quickly. As he turned, he absently touched the front of his tunic, feeling the warm gem hidden on a golden chain beneath his shirt (even after centuries it remained ever warm to the touch, and equally brilliant when exposed).

 

Perhaps he was as flawed as his brother, for though he did not voice the words aloud, in his heart he vowed that against all odds, the doom of the Valar, the hatred of Morgoth, and the distrust of his brother, he _would_ see his family reunited. If they were together, he believed, Morgoth and his servants would fail to stand against the might of the Noldor.


End file.
